


Can't Mess This Up

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Early Pregnancy, F/M, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Pregnancy, mentions of sylvain's parents, sylvain's self-loathing strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: "I'm pregnant" Ingrid says.Sylvain panics, perhaps a bit more than an expectant father should.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Can't Mess This Up

“Sylvain.” Ingrid’s voice was soft, unsteady. “I’m pregnant.”

Sylvain looked at his wife—at the beautiful woman he’d had the privilege of marrying—whose eyes lit up as she looked up at him, a bright smile on her face as a blush spread across her cheeks. Her fingers were half-laced in front of her, fidgeting with a nervous energy.

He looked at her, and his entire body went rigid. His throat tightened like a hand was being held against it, his stomach churned like his heart had literally dropped into it.

“I . . .” his voice was strained, uncooperative, “I think I left something in my office.”

He turned on his heel, hurrying down the hall back the way he’d come. The louder Ingrid’s yells were, the faster he walked, even when he could no longer hear her. He walked and walked and walked until his lungs burned and his knees threatened to give out beneath him.

He fell back against the wall, face in his hands as he struggled to catch his breath.

It should have been relieving. After all, they’d been worried that she was falling ill; for a couple weeks now, she’d been exhausted and incapable of eating—constantly nauseous, if not outright sick. He’d been pushing her almost hourly to see a healer, to make sure she was alright. But she’d refused; if she was able to train and tend the stables, then she was fine. It was only when she’d refused to eat and nearly collapsed that he’d finally convinced her.

But she wasn’t sick. She was pregnant.

He was _supposed_ to be happy. After all, it had already been a year since they’d started trying. Before that, they had picked themselves apart to make sure this _was_ what they wanted, not just the expectations of their parents and their roles. She was willing to put her knighthood on hold. He was willing to take on what she couldn’t do. They were ready; they could do it. They _wanted_ this.

His heart thrummed in his chest, making him feel confined, restrained. It didn’t feel like he was getting enough breath. His fingers trembled, even as he actively willed them not to. This . . . he’d not had this feeling for _years_ , but it was anything _but_ good.

“Sylvain!” Ingrid’s voice echoed down the hall, bouncing off the stone walls. “Are you here?”

Sylvain winced, his hand reaching behind him and wrapping around the doorknob. He slid into the room, careful to close the door quietly behind him. He held his breath as he leaned against the door, frozen lest he make any noise.

He only got more rigid as he heard the sound of her heels approaching. They slowed as she passed the rooms, but they didn’t stop. She just kept going. And then, soon enough, the sound faded into the distance.

He groaned, running his fingers in his hair and tugging at the strands. This was pathetic. He wanted to be a father, and here he was _hiding_ from his wife. It was cold, it was cruel, and it was simply idiotic. That she’d ever even considered him worthy of fatherhood was utterly laughable.

And yet, and yet he couldn’t even bring himself to leave this room and chase after her. Couldn’t even step up and acknowledge his weakness. Instead, he kept hiding in some room in the manor, even if he didn’t know where he was.

Well, at least there was _something_ he could face. He pulled his hands away from his face and glanced up, hoping he hadn’t stumbled into something questionable.

For the second time today, his body felt like it was made of stone. It was a room he hadn’t been in since he was a child: his mother’s office—a room that had been her personal domain and his sanctuary.

Uneasily, he stepped further inside. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, so covered that not even spiders had come here to leave their cobwebs. Sylvain knew his father had left it untouched after she died, unwilling to disturb her memory. And when his old man had fallen, Sylvain had left his parents’ things alone, too. It wasn’t for their memory or legacy—he just never wanted to drudge up memories best left forgotten.

But he was here. It was too late to undo what he had already done. Instead, he let his fingers brush over her armchair, let his gaze fall over the fireplace still burdened with ash and half-burnt logs.

He could recall the number of times he had snuck inside, crawling into her lap as she wrote letters to friends and allies. He could remember the times she spent reading to him by her fire, sometimes even reading her letters to him if they had any stories of his friends. Here too he had fallen asleep on her armchair, lulled by her soft hums as she busied herself with some new hobby she’d picked up for the day.

And then, one day, he wasn’t welcome anymore. Something had happened after he’d gotten lost in a blizzard. Something changed in the way she looked at him. She turned him away from her room; only Miklan was allowed to meet with her in there, only he was allowed to enjoy what had once been Sylvain’s sanctuary.

Sylvain knew he couldn’t complain. Whatever he asked for, his father willingly gave him. Books, toys, weapons, servants—he merely needed to mention it, and it was his. Its price was simple: lessons and training and far more expectations than his mother had ever asked of him. And his father never really smiled at him like his mother had.

And, unlike his mother, his father had little issue leaving Sylvain alone with Miklan. The older brother was supposed to know his place, after all. He was supposed to know better.

Sylvain sighed, turning away from the fireplace and toward her desk. He’d been allowed to watch as she wrote here, as she wrote things meant more for business than pleasure. Sometimes she’d told him what she wrote about. Most of the time she insisted he wouldn’t understand. Someday, she said, he’d get to write his own letters there, too.

His fingertips ran along the desk’s edge, letting the dust catch on his fingers. It was almost shameful how bad his father had let it get in here. No—it was his home now, _he_ was the Margrave. The state of this room was on him.

He paused as his fingers nudged against something uneven on the desk. Curious, he picked it up, blowing off the dust with an exhale when his hand clearly wasn’t brushing off enough. He could tell that it was an envelope, at least, but—

He froze as he made out his name in a long, curled scrawl—elegant as if immense time had been devoted to each and every letter. It was his mother’s handwriting, he could make out that much. But why was it _here_?

He shifted to lean against the desk, lips pressed together. Slowly, he slid his thumb beneath the envelope’s edge, pulling out the letter inside.

> _My darling Sylvain,_
> 
> _There are few words I can offer you aside from ‘I’m sorry.’ I am, my love. Nothing I can do will erase my mistakes, and nothing I can hope will ever heal the scars my errors have left on you._
> 
> _I should have kept you by my side. I should have been your protector. Instead, I stood by and did nothing. I let your father do as his father had done to him, even though I knew it was unjust. I let your brother act freely, thinking perhaps he would realize that your Crest was little more than a gilded collar. And I did to you what my mother had done to me, merely standing aside and hoping fate might protect you. And now, with my days so limited, I know I can do nothing about it._
> 
> _I freely admit that I resented my parents for cursing me with this ‘gift’, for doing nothing to help me. I know, I know so very well, that this will be your burden. I freely welcome your hatred; I deserve it. I know quite well that you may just toss this letter to the flames before you read a single word. And I accept it._
> 
> _If you do read this, then I want you to know that it is my dearest wish that you escape the cycle. My greatest hope that you can stand on your own and do what we couldn’t dare to do. My heartiest desire that you grow into a man that the world can admire, without the burdens of our blood chaining you. I have prayed fervently for the goddess to grant this, and if I meet her, I shall demand it relentlessly. I shall hound her to the ends of the earth till she grants you peace._
> 
> _I know it is not much, but it is all I can offer you._

Sylvian let out a shaky inhale, letting the letter fall to the desk at his side. He sighed, rubbing his eyes and holding his face in his hands.

Perhaps he’d never hated his mother, but he’d certainly resented her. And now, knowing that she _knew_ what was happening—that she wasn’t too busy to notice or blind because it was her _sons_ , after all—it sparked those feelings anew. He’d thought he’d been rid of the anger, and yet it was pooling in his stomach once more, barely fettered like it had been as a young teen.

But she had _known_ that he’d resent her. It was the same way she felt toward her own parents. And likely the same way her parents had felt toward theirs. It was like such hatred came hand-in-hand with their Crests. Like it was as natural as the blood in their veins.

And that meant that his children would, inevitably, hate him. Even if it wasn’t in their blood, it wasn’t like they lacked any possible reasons for it, after all.

He had little doubt that his reputation would follow his children, that it would force everyone to look upon them with suspicion—especially when they eventually went to the Academy. The Academy would expect either trouble and incompetence, entirely ignoring his children’s own merits. It didn’t matter what they did, what they accomplished, they would be a Gautier.

Or, perhaps, he would unintentionally spark competition between them—while a lesser Crest wasn’t likely to pass on, he didn’t doubt that he’d somehow pass it to _one_ of them. And, even if he tried to treat all his children the same, society wouldn’t. They’d always treat the Crest-given child better. The children without Crests would be seen as . . . fodder, at best. Sacrifices to keep the Crest-child safe. And he didn’t doubt that all his children would hate _him_ for doing that to them, even if he wished he could keep his Crest to himself forever.

Or maybe they’d realize what he’d done to their mother. How his selfishness had turned one of Fodlan’s greatest knights into . . . into little more than a mere margravine. She’d gone from the epitome of champion, of practically a goddess of war, to this. And, now that they were having kids, he had little doubt that this was all people would expect of her. Even if he fought it with all his might—even if he prevented her from being forced into this fate—he had little doubt that his children would hear those whispers. That they would be shamed for their parents’ choices. That they’d blame him for trying to take the choice away from Ingrid in the first place.

And Ingrid . . . he couldn’t blame her if she started hating him, too. For that, _all_ of that, and for lying to her in the first place. For so eagerly telling her that he wanted to have children, and then doing _this_ the moment it became a reality.

He sighed. It hadn’t been a lie at first. At the time, his delighted whispers against her skin were entirely heartfelt. He’d meant his promises of raising their children together, of making them as happy and loved as possible. He’d wanted them to enjoy the experience together, to do everything that their own parents had neglected.

Considering the inescapability of this cycle, though . . . he wasn’t sure he’d ever be any better than his father. Even if he tried.

But it was unfair to do this to Ingrid. At the very least, she had to know. From there . . . he didn’t know what would happen then.

His footsteps seemed to echo down the hall, even as he made it toward the dining room. It wasn’t unusual for it to be vaguely quiet—the staff usually ate and began to wrap up their chores for the night around this time—but it wasn’t usually silent. There would be the sounds of Ingrid eating, or humming to herself as she read, or muttering to herself as she looked over her gear. But there was none of that now.

With the dining room so quiet, he wondered if she would have taken the meal to their room instead. It wasn’t like he could be mad with her about it; spiting a small pet peeve was nothing in comparison to what he’d done.

But it was best to be thorough. With a sigh, he stepped into the dining room, mentally preparing himself for the grandest scolding if she _was_ in here.

But the room was empty. Empty of people, anyway. There was a broad spread on the table, an impressive mix of foods that they both favored. Though, by the way that he couldn’t really smell it, he was sure it had grown cold an hour ago.

He stepped nearer, eyes falling over the plates. His dish had been set directly next to Ingrid’s—a little surprising considering he usually sat across from her to keep his ‘wandering hands’ from disturbing her meals. Her plate even had food on it, though it looked more like a bird had pecked at it. The biscuit had been pulled to shreds, left to stale on the nearby napkin.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. It was clear that she had waited for him. And he’d left her alone. Again.

A small sniffle broke though his thoughts like the loudest roar. His feet moved without waiting for his brain to respond, crossing the room in long steps. He was glad that the door was open, since he was sure he wouldn’t have the patience to deal with the doorknob. It let him slide through the doorway, spinning around the corner to the source.

There was Ingrid, hand clenched into a tight fist as she clung to the wall to stay upright. She was slightly hunched, breaths coming out in swallowed-down pants. As he stepped closer, she looked _worse_. Her skin was pale, small strands of hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. While she wasn’t crying, she certainly didn’t seem far from it. At her feet was what was had likely been her dinner.

Sylvain let out a shaky breath, reaching out to her and brushing her hair from her face. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

Ingrid smacked away his hand, eyes bright as she glared up at him. “Leave me alone.”

“Just tell me if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” She hissed, pushing herself up straight. It would almost be believable, if she didn’t immediately waver and clap a hand to her mouth. She paled even more, like she was just on the verge of being sick again.

Sylvain frowned, undoing the clasp of his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Leave me _alone_ , Sylvain.” It had been ages since he’d heard such venom in her voice, and certainly he had never heard it directed at him. And it had been ages since she tried to _punch him_.

He caught her hand, glancing down at it. Well, it appeared he was another step closer to her hating him forever.

His lip curled. No, he wasn’t just okay with accepting that. He brought her hand to his chest, just above his heart. “I’m sorry, Ingrid.” He said, voice cracking slightly. “I’m sorry. I never meant—”

Ingrid’s fist unclenched slightly, her shoulders sagging. “I want to go to bed.” She muttered.

He swallowed. “Can I take you there?” He was certainly in no place to assume.

She nodded, refusing to look at him.

She was quiet the whole way, even as he guided her into bed and pulled a blanket over her. It seemed to ease the symptoms a bit, but not enough.

But he had been used to this, when he thought she was sick. A few damp cloths, and some very flavorless food, and she would at least be able to sleep in peace. He turned; if he recalled, he still had a few clean cloths in their bathroom that he could use.

Fingers dug into his sleeve, making him freeze in place.

As he glanced over his shoulder, his stomach churned. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, eyes wide as she looked up at him. “I thought you’d be happy.” She whispered.

It felt like his world was literally spinning.

Sylvain dropped to his knees at the bedside, bringing her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She scoffed. “You said that.” She sighed, bringing her free hand up to wipe the tears from her face. “You should have just been honest with me.”

“I was, Ingrid!” He winced at his volume. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I was. I’m . . . not unhappy. I’m . . . I’m just—”

“Just _what,_ Sylvain?”

Sylvain shuddered at the intensity of her glare. He bit his lip and looked away. He just wanted to disappear, but he couldn’t even make himself small. And he knew he shouldn’t have. He had to be honest with her. She deserved that, at the very least. “I’m scared.”

He’d expected her to yell. He’d expected her to scold him for being an idiot. He’d expected anger, in any form. But he didn’t get that.

“Sylvain.” Her voice was soft—far softer than he expected—hand turning to cup his cheek. “What are you afraid of?”

He pressed his lips together, a shudder running down his spine. It was pathetic. After all, what right did he have to be scared? He wasn’t the one bearing children. And if his children loathed him, it would only be the consequence of his actions. And Ingrid was the one who was going to suffer most from this— _she_ should have been the frightened one.

“I’ll be okay, Sylvain.” Ingrid said, fingers moving up to scratch lightly at his scalp. “Medical techniques are better. The magic is better. It won’t be like Felix’s mom, or—”

“I know.” He sighed, leaning into her touch. “I know you’ll be okay.”

She sighed, hand moving to pull at his collar. “Come here.”

He didn’t argue, though he didn’t imagine she’d let him. With his every movement, her fingers curled into his shirt at his shoulders, then his sleeves, then his chest. She guided him to lie beside her over the blankets. She only released him when he curled up at her side.

Her fingers returned to his hair, combing through his locks. “So what is it?”

Sylvain couldn’t bring himself to look her in her eyes. He let his gaze focus instead on a little beauty mark on her throat that he’d probably kissed a hundred times. “I’m going to mess up. I’m going to—” ‘ _ruin them’_ , he wanted to say, but it burned like acid on his tongue. He wasn’t sure he could ever say it.

She lightly tugged at his hair, guiding his head so he could pillow it against her shoulder, so his ear settled just above her heart. “You won’t.”

He chuckled, but it was weak, pathetic. His fingers curled into her shirt. “I’ve always been the biggest screw-up. You know that.”

“Sylvain.” She sighed, pressing her cheek to his hair. “I can’t do this without you. I need you with me.”

“You sure you want me there?” His lip twitched, his tone bitter. “You don’t think I’ll mess them up?”

“I know you won’t.” She chuckled softly, lips pressing kisses into his hair.

He huffed a disbelieving laugh.

“Do you want to know why I know?” She curled his hair around one of her fingers, humming when he nodded slightly. “Because I know you.”

He lifted his head to frown at her.

She laughed. Slowly, she traced her fingers along his, guiding his hand to lay across her stomach. She settled her palm on his. “I know you’ll love them. You won’t be able to help yourself.”

He opened his mouth to argue—his mother had loved him, too—but Ingrid cut him off.

“You do anything for the people you love. You’ve changed so much . . . even just for me. I can’t fathom what you’ll do just to make your children happy, too. But I know you will.”

He stared at her. It was unfair how lovely she was, how she could look at him with such unwavering sincerity and make him feel warm and soft. It was unfair how her heart bade him to match its rhythm, easing him into a calm he’d not felt all day. It was unfair how much he loved her.

“Besides,” she said, a small smile on her lips, “if you’re so worried, we’re _both_ their parents. We’ll be there to stop each other from ruining them. Together.”

Sylvain sighed, letting his head rest against her once more. His parents had never done anything together. They had worked as opposites, or as separate entities. But it wouldn’t be that with him and Ingrid. They were a balance, and they were best when they were together. And, together, they could make a world that their children wouldn’t hate.

“I don’t deserve you.” He whispered, sitting up and pressing a kiss to her stomach, just between their laced fingers.

She smiled fondly at him. “Perhaps not, but I love you anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> Side note: just headcanoning that Sylvain's mom has a minor Crest, but it never showed in her children. Having it, though, sparked her arranged marriage to Sylvain's father. 
> 
> As always, please feel free to reach out to me on Twitter! [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming).


End file.
